


A Hawthorne Holiday Carol

by Raj_Sound



Series: Intro to Community Fanfiction [6]
Category: Community (TV)
Genre: AU Britta Perry/Jeff Winger, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Drug Addiction, Established Relationship, F/M, Hanukkah, Inspired by A Christmas Carol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27820687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raj_Sound/pseuds/Raj_Sound
Summary: Pierce Hawthorne is haunted by the Ghosts of Greendale Past, Present, and Future. And Abed.
Relationships: Annie Edison/Jeff Winger
Series: Intro to Community Fanfiction [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884427
Comments: 72
Kudos: 74
Collections: Community Discord Winter Holiday Collection





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place on December 5th, 2013.

Study Room F is decorated in colorful and festive, but appropriately generic winter holiday cheer, fitting for the last official meeting of the Save Greendale Committee before the start of the holiday break. Granted, five of the seven of them still have classes to attend, but between finals, sugar-induced hyperactivity, and turkey-induced lethargy, it’s not like they were going to get a lot done anyway.

“So, I know you all got your invitations, but just a reminder, the party starts at five,” Annie says from her seat at the head of the table. Technically this will be the second time she hosted a holiday party at Jeff’s apartment, but this will be the first time the two of them are hosting a party at  _ their _ apartment. It’s kind of a big deal. “We’ll light the menorah at five-fifteen, trim the tree at five-thirty, and we’ll start dinner at six. Gifts are welcome, but not required, and feel free to bring any dishes you’d like to share.”

“And remember, this is a housewarming party that just happens to fall on the last night of Hanukkah and around Christmas. It’s definitely not specifically a holiday party,” Jeff says, looking at their resident Jehovah's Witness.

Troy beams. “Thanks for thinking of me guys,” he says happily.

“No problem.”

“You know, most of the traditions we associate with Christmas are actually pagan traditions,” Britta explains for some reason. “Gift giving, carols, Santa, decorating trees, decking the halls, mistletoe…”

“We get it. You’re an atheist,” Shirley huffs. “No need to take it out on Christmas.”

“Agreed,” Abed says solemnly.

“Or Hanukkah,” Annie adds.

“Or Hanukkah.”

“Or Hanukkah,” Shirley mumbles.

“I was just saying, incorporating these traditions made Christmas more inclusive,” Britta mutters sullenly. She shoves her fists into the pockets of her jacket and frowns. No one ever thinks her fun facts are fun. Troy smiles at her sympathetically, which she returns with gratitude.

Pierce chooses this particular moment to finally show up for the committee meeting that started half an hour ago looking like he has something Very Important to say. “Hey guys! You excited about the party?” he asks cheerfully. Who’s he kidding? Why wouldn’t they be? Hawthorne parties are legendary.

“We were just talking about it,” Abed replies. “Are you bringing a gift? I never know what to get for other people. Except Troy.”

“You know it!” Troy says cheerfully. They double high-five it.

“The year I moved in with them, Abed got me the ingredients to make pancakes for Christmas,” Annie says dryly.

“I thought you said it was the thought that counts.”

“Why would I bring anything?” Pierce asks, confused. “The party is at my house.”

“Um, no it’s not,” Jeff says. Ugh, this isn’t going to be a  _ thing _ , is it? Wasn’t there enough drama last week? “It’s at our place, remember? We talked about it last week.”

“Sure it is,” Pierce insists. “I sent you guys an e-vite months ago.”

“All your emails are set to go straight to my spam folder,” Shirley replies unapologetically. If she wanted to read rants from crazy old white dudes, she’d peruse the Fox News comment section.

“Mine too,” Britta says.

“Same here,” Troy nods

“Ummm...” Annie murmurs reluctantly.

“You know how to use email?” Jeff asks sarcastically.

“I taught him a few years ago,” Abed says. “That may have been a mistake.”

“Whatever,” Pierce says, waving his hands irritably. “Anyway, the party starts at six. Wear something festive. And ladies, this is a classy party, so feel free to show a little skin. Just because it’s a religious holiday doesn’t mean you have to dress like nuns.”

All three of the ladies reflexively cross their arms over their chests and glare at Pierce, regardless of whether they were showing any cleavage. 

“Please forgive him Lord,” Shirley says, looking up toward Heaven and shaking her head for the thousandth time on Pierce’s behalf. Britta mutters something about sexism while Annie discreetly buttons her cardigan.

“Pierce, I appreciate that your minimum wage employees probably put a lot of effort into this party you have planned,” Jeff says with measured patience. “But I think I speak for everyone when I say that we’d all prefer to have a quiet, intimate celebration, just the seven of us, without any drama. No street fights.”

“No stop motion animation,” Abed chimes in.

“No kidnapping teachers,” Annie nods solemnly.

“And no Glee!” everyone but Pierce says in perfect unison.

“That was cool,” Troy says enthusiastically. “It’s almost like we rehearsed it.”

Pierce scans the room. The others look back at him hopefully. Except Jeff and Britta, who look more skeptical than hopeful. “I understand…” Pierce starts.

Jeff sighs a deep, beleaguered sigh. “Wait for it,” he warns the others. A reasonable person would appreciate the effort that Jeff and Annie (mostly Annie) put into this and how important it is to her to celebrate the holidays with her fiancé and the rest of her chosen family in her new home, especially in light of the recent drama with her biological family.

However, Pierce is not known for being particularly reasonable.

“You people are trying to exclude me!” Pierce roars. “Again!”

“Pierce, no one is trying to exclude you,” Annie says sincerely. “We really want you to be there.”

“Some more than others, but sure,” Britta shrugs.

“Britta!”

“What? We were all thinking it.”

“See!” Pierce says triumphantly. “At least the lesbian has the balls to admit it, which is more than I can say for the rest of you people. So enjoy your stupid little party. I hope it sucks!” With that, he storms off in an angry old man huff, red faced and muttering to himself unintelligibly. 

Jeff immediately works to mitigate him. “No one follow him,” he commands. “This is a tantrum. If we indulge him, he’s just going to keep pulling crap like this whenever he doesn’t get his way.”

“But,” Annie interjects.

“Annie!” Jeff shouts. He winces when he sees her eyes get big and shiny and her lip starts to do that thing. “He’ll come around,” he says, reaching for her hand and rubbing her fingers with his thumb in a silent  _ I’m sorry I yelled at you _ way. “Or he won’t,” he continues. “That’s on him. Either way, we are going to have a Happy Hanukkah and a Merry Christmas. With or without him.”

Despite Jeff’s reassurances, the energy in the room has gone from warm and bright to frigid and dark. Everyone is avoiding each other’s gaze, no one is saying a word, and even Annie, beacon of perpetual hope, looks crestfallen.

Troy and Abed share a look. Wordlessly, they reach down and lift up a pair of identical briefcases onto the table. They open the cases and carefully don pairs of pristine white gloves. They lift the handbells out of their cases, four in hand.

“One, two, three. One, two, three,” Troy whispers.

The two of them play Carol of the Bells. Flawlessly. It’s a hauntingly beautiful rendition, performed with machine-like precision by the two-man bell choir.

“Oh, that’s nice!” Shirley beams. Annie claps with glee. Britta flashes Troy an appreciative grin, which Troy manages to return without breaking his concentration. Even Jeff, who would normally make fun of them for doing something so ridiculously dorky is rendered speechless by their sheer technical skill.

“Told you it would be worth it,” Abed says breathlessly after they finish.

“On an unrelated note, Annie, you might get a call from our landlord,” Troy mentions. “Something about noise complaints and bells.”

“But I don’t live there anymore,” Annie says, confused. “Why would he call me?”

Troy and Abed share another look.

-

_ Get me some rope _

_ Tie me to dream _

_ Give me the hope _

_ to run out of steam _

_ Somebody said _

_ it could be here _

_ We could be roped up, tied up, dead in a year _

_ I can't count the reasons I should stay _

_ One by one they all just fade away _


	2. Act 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce sees a ghost and goes on a journey to the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: The Arabic text is literal gibberish created by a Lorem Ipsum generator. It doesn't mean anything.

The sounds of a rocking party echo through the halls of Hawthorne Manor. Music, random chatter, beautiful women giggling, no doubt at something very funny Pierce said. Everything one could hope for in a holiday party.

“Hey Gilbert, it’s your brother,” Pierce says into his landline telephone. “Pierce. Pierce Hawthorne.” The clarification is unnecessary, as he’s known Gilbert for decades, but he’s still getting used to having a brother. “Sorry you couldn’t make it to the party. It’s turning into quite the rager. Yep. It’s pretty ‘lit,’ as the young people are saying.” He’s very proud of using lit correctly. “Anyway, I hope you’re having fun down in Mexico or whatever. I’ll see you later. Take care brother.”

Under different circumstances, he would be resentful that Gilbert, (to whom Pierce gave a kidney, no big deal) opted to spend Christmas in Guatemala or Puerto Rico or wherever with his mother instead of keeping Pierce company. Under these circumstances, well, as they say, it’s all about keeping up appearances. After all, what’s the point of owning a mansion if you can’t fill it with people? 

Pierce turns off the YouTube video titled, “Awesome New York Christmas Party 2011,” which leaves Hawthorne Manor as it was before, silent and still. He considers starting up the video again so he can call his so-called friends and gloat, but he decides against it on the off-chance they’re clever enough to see through his ruse, which would be too embarrassing to bear.

The mansion is empty. The servants are at home with their families. Pierce’s recent efforts to find the next ex-Mrs. Hawthorne have been fruitless thus far. Annie, Jeff, Troy, Shirley, Britta, and Abed are no doubt bored to tears at their crappy little party in Jeff (and Annie’s) crappy little apartment. He could liven their little party by gracing it with his presence, but that would involve swallowing his pride, and Pierce Hawthorne doesn’t swallow.

“Ungrateful jerks.” Pierce mutters as he idly stokes the fire. The fireplace is mostly for ambience. The mansion has central heating. “They’re the ones that need ‘sensitivity training.’ Never including me, always treating me like I’m a bad joke, acting like I’m some kind of villain. Bah! Humbug!”

“Depends on the demographic,” Abed replies unexpectedly. “Some people relate to you better than others.”

“Jesus!” Pierce shouts, swinging the poker wildy. Sure enough, Abed Nadir is standing in front of him, only he’s wrapped in cheap plastic chains and seems a bit paler than usual, like he’s wearing pancake makeup or something. “You scared the crap out of me. What are you doing in my house Ay-bed? I thought none of you people were coming to my party.”

“I am not Abed,” Abed replies ominously. “I am the ghost of your old study group partner…Abed Nadir. You can call me Ghost Abed. Or just Abed.” He drops the spooky ghost voice and resumes his normal fast-paced delivery. “Anyway, I’ve come with a warning. Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits.” He holds up three fingers for dramatic emphasis. “The Ghosts of Greendale’s past,” he folds down one finger, “present,” then another, “and future,” and then the last. “Take what they show you to heart, or you will be doomed to suffer my fate. To serve as an exposition device in someone else’s story…forever.”

Pierce scowls, wanting no part in any of Abed’s TV crap. “As usual, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. This premise has been done to death,” Abed says. He sounds bored. “Personally, I was hoping for a Grinch homage, but that doesn’t really translate to live-action very well. Anyway, it’s time for me to go. Party’s about to start. Shirley’s making latkes and sugar cookies.”

“Fine,” Pierce snaps, turning his attention back to the fire. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out Ay-bed!” He turns back to make sure he leaves without stealing anything, only to discover that Abed is already gone. Both of the doors and windows are shut and he didn’t hear any of them open or close. And this room doesn’t have any secret trapdoors. It’s almost as if he disappeared. “Ay-bed?”

No one answers.

* * *

Pierce looks fondly at the portrait of the study group he had commissioned a year or so ago as he sits in his study sipping a brandy. It’s mostly true-to-life, with a few creative embellishments here and there. He had the artist enhance the ladies’ bust size (in a tasteful, flattering way) and slightly exaggerated the relative proportions of Winger’s forehead. And of course, he encouraged the artist to give Pierce a more youthful energy, which translated to painting him as he looked in his early forties. For consistency.

The gong of the massive grandfather clock shakes him from his thoughts. Pierce swears his father only bought the damn thing to make the passage of time seem terrifying. It chimes five times, which means the _other_ party has already started.

“I have got to get rid of that clock,” Pierce grumbles.

“Hellooo!” a familiar angelic voice sing-songs.

“Jesus Christ!” Pierce cries, almost falling out of his chair. “Shirley? What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m not Shirley,” Shirley says in her sweetly condescending mom voice. She’s dressed as Mrs. Claus, albeit far less conservatively than either the real Shirley or the real Mrs. Claus would actually dress. It’s not quite as skimpy as Annie’s glee-inspired take, but it’s close. “I am the Ghost of Greendale Past,” she explains. “And I will thank you not to take the Lord’s name in vain,” she adds in a low voice.

“And I thought Ay-bed was the crazy one,” Pierce chuckles, shaking his head incredulously.

“I’m not crazy. I’m _magical._ I’m here to take you on a journey to the past,” Shirley explains.

“The past, huh? Can you take me to the Eighties?” Pierce asks. “I feel like that was my peak.”

“It’s not that kind of journey. It seems like you haven’t been very appreciative of the people who love you lately…”

“They have a funny way of showing it,” Pierce quips.

Shirley clears her throat loudly, clearly irritated at the interruption. “... _so_ I’m here to show you what our lives were like before the seven of us became a family.”

“Oh good grief,” Pierce scoffs. Clearly his so-called friends are trying to teach him a lesson with all this ghost nonsense. “You people are really committing to this, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean _you people?”_

“For the last time, it’s not a race thing. I find all of you equally annoying.”

“So that’s how it’s gonna be huh?” Shirley says, crossing her arms and scowling. “Okay. _Hard way_ it is.” She snaps her fingers. There’s a blinding flash of light.

Pierce is aware of two things as the light fades. The first is that his ass hurts. The second is that the two of them are no longer in his study. “What the hell?” he demands as he slowly picks himself up off the floor. His chair is gone, replaced by a hard tile floor. “Where are we? How did you do that?”

“I told you. I’m a ghost. I have powers. And this,” she explains, gesturing to the party surrounding them, “is the past.”

“Who’s past?” Pierce asks.

“Our past.”

None of the faces are familiar at first. The men are all dressed in expensive, tailored suits and the ladies are wearing similarly flattering dresses. No one seems to take notice of Pierce and Shirley, or Ghost Shirley or whoever she is as they walk through the crowd.

Pierce finally spots two familiar faces. The first is Jeff Winger, only he’s clean shaven and looks closer to thirty than forty. The other is that smug little asshole Pierce hired to sue Shirley a few years back. Alan something?

“Sexy redhead, ten o’clock,” Jeff says, discreetly gesturing to an attractive red haired woman near the bar. “You know a way in?”

“Not like you need my help, but sure,” Alan replies. “That's Kevin’s step-daughter. Can’t remember her name.”

“Like that matters,” Jeff smirks. Alan laughs.

“Jeffrey! What the hell are you doing?” Pierce shouts. He gets in Jeff’s face, but Jeff remains completely indifferent to Pierce’s presence. “What about Annie?”

“What part of ‘this is the past’ did you not understand?” Shirley scolds him. “What we’re seeing now has already happened. Nobody can see or hear you.”

“True. She got _hot_. Lost a ton of weight,” Alan says. “She used to be like…” In lieu of words, Alan makes a crude gesture with his arms indicating a fat person.

“Got it. Former fat girl with daddy issues. Like taking candy from a baby,” Jeff says confidently. He gives Alan a nod then heads to the bar to work his magic.

“Go get 'em , Tiger,” Alan cheers.

“What an ass,” Pierce says scornfully as he watches Jeff chat up the redhead broad. It’s bad enough he’s cheating on Annie. Or not. Technically he hasn’t even met Annie yet. Time travel is confusing. In any event, Winger’s a dick.

“Jeffrey wasn’t a very good person back then,” Shirley says sadly. “Or a very happy one.”

“Seems happy to me.”

“The old Jeffrey was good at lying, especially to himself.”

“So, this is real? You’re really a ghost?” Pierce asks.

“Yes! How are you still not wrapping your head around this? Were you dropped as a child?”

“Of course not!” Pierce lies. He was in fact dropped several times as a child, not that Shirley the Judgemental Ghost needs to know that. He decided to conduct an experiment, just to make extra completely sure this isn’t an elaborate con and attempts to reach _through_ Shirley, since everyone knows that stuff passes through ghosts. Unfortunately, Shirley interprets this as an attempt to grope her and slaps him.

“I may be a ghost, but I will still beat your _ass_ if you try to put your hands on me again,” Shirley growls.

“Sorry. Jeez,” Pierce sulks.

“Well, if you’re ready to behave yourself,” Shirley continues. “I’ve got more to show you.” She snaps her fingers again, and again the world fades in a flash of light.

* * *

The Greendale Army Reserve Center sits empty, save for three people holding signs and yelling in the parking lot. One of these three people is Britta Perry. She looks mostly the same, save for a tacky nose ring and random colored strands of hair amid her blonde curls. “No blood for oil! No blood for oil!” she shouts at the empty building. Normally Britta and her fellow anarchists would have scheduled their protest on a drill weekend, but Raven has to work on Saturday and Krystofer has tickets to see BNL on Sunday and no one else wanted to come.

Technically Pierce and Shirley are there too, but only as invisible observers.

“Britta, I don’t think anyone’s paying attention,” Raven says reluctantly. She wants to be supportive, but it’s like, really cold outside.

“Of course not,” Britta shouts, undeterred. “We have to get louder if we want to be heard over the sound of the entire military industrial complex.” This particular arm of the military industrial complex only shows up one weekend a month and two weeks a year. “No blood for oil! No blood for oil!”

“I mean, it’s Christmas,” Krystofer points out. “We’re the only ones here.”

“It’s December 10th,” Britta retorts.

“Close enough. The point is, no one’s here. They’re all at home. With their families. You know, where _we_ should be. Maybe we should just go home too.”

“Fine,” Britta says passive-aggressively. “You can go home if you want to. But I’m not leaving until my voice is heard.”

With that, Raven and Krystofer leave, separately, because he’s a nice guy and all, but he’s so not her type, leaving Britta alone. She continues her chant with the level of stubborn indignation only Britta Perry is capable of. “No blood for oil! No blood for oil!”

“Big surprise,” Pierce scoffs. “Britta doing something pointless. What else is new?”

“What else is there for her to do?” Shirley asks sadly.

Pierce is confused by her tone. The real Shirley is all too eager to poke fun at Britta’s expense, especially when she’s being ridiculous. “She could go home to her family,” Pierce replies, not half as certain as he’s accustomed to being.

“Maybe she can’t. Maybe until she met us, she didn’t have a family she could go home to.”

Pierce bristles at this. “That’s ridiculous. She has a family.” At least, he assumes she does. It occurs to him that she hasn’t volunteered much information about her family and that he never bothered to ask.

Shirley nods grimly. “And the fact that she’d rather be out here in the cold than with them should tell you everything you need to know about them.”

“No blood for oil! No blood for oil!” Britta chants. Her voice sounds as needlessly defiant as ever, but the look on her face is heartbreakingly familiar. It’s the same look Pierce has seen in the mirror more times than he cares to remember. Shirley mercifully snaps her fingers and the world fades away.

* * *

The next setting is refreshingly familiar. Pierce has only been here once, but he still recognizes the Bennett household. What’s less familiar is the sight of two Shirleys, one wearing a typically conservative dress with her _He is Risen_ bread loaf cross apron draped over it and the other still dressed as sexy Mrs. Claus.

“What the hell? How are you there, but here at the same time?” Pierce demands.

Santa Shirley rolls her eyes. “That’s past Shirley. I’m the Ghost of Greendale Past. Keep up, Pierce,” she says, annoyed.

“Just saying. It was bad enough when there was only one of you.”

“You’re gonna be seeing three of me if you keep up that attitude,” she warns him as she readies a threatening fist.

“Who wants cookies?” Past Shirley chirrups cheerfully.

“Thanks Shirley,” Andre says, grabbing a couple of cookies. Shirley presents her cheek for a kiss, but Andre stuffs his mouth full of cookies and heads back to the couch.

“Aren’t they delicious?” Past Shirley says, fishing for a compliment, which frankly is the least Andre could do. “Can you guess what the secret ingredient is?”

“Is it love? It’s probably love,” Pierce interjects.

“Baby, I’m trying to watch TV,” Andre says dismissively. Pierce frowns.

“So, have you given any more thought to what we discussed the other day?” Past Shirley asks gently.

“Shirley, do we have to talk about this now?” Andre protests.

“It’s just, I’ve just been feeling a little unfulfilled lately. The boys are getting older and they don’t need me as much. Things seem to be going really well for you at the store, and I thought this would be a good chance for me to take a shot at my own business,” she explains.

“Baby, no disrespect,” he says, about to say something disrespectful, “but you don’t know the first thing about running a business. Now you are a fantastic baker, and a wonderful mother. Why don’t you just stick to what you’re good at, you know?”

“You know, I never liked him,” Pierce growls. Partly because Pierce feels that he had a real shot with Shirley before Andre came crawling back. Mostly because Shirley Bennett is both a cunning businesswoman and a generous spirit, and she deserves to be treated accordingly.

“Andre didn’t appreciate me back then,” Ghost Shirley says sadly.

“You know, three of my ex-wives said the same thing to me,” Pierce admits. “That I didn’t appreciate them.”

“Sometimes we take the people we love for granted without meaning to, and we don’t even realize it until they’re gone.”

“Yeah, well you took your husband back,” Pierce says gruffly, gesturing to the past versions of Shirley and Andre arguing.

“And we took you back too,” Shirley replies. She gives Pierce a moment to reflect before snapping her fingers.

* * *

Pierce doesn’t recognize the next house. It’s a spacious and affluent house, tastefully decorated in a festive manner, only in silver and blue instead of red and green. There’s one of those Jewish candle holder things in a place of prominence, with five of the nine candles lit. Pierce spots Annie’s mother sitting in a chair nearby, silently reading a book.

“Is this Annie’s house?” Pierce asks. Shirley nods.

Annie, or rather, the high school version of Annie appears with a broad brace-filled smile on her face. Her hair is a bushy mess of curls and she’s wearing an unflattering pair of glasses to match her drab spinster librarian outfit. “Okay, so I’ve finished my biology paper, updated my college application letters, prepped the debate talking points for next semester, wrapped my Hanukkah presents, choreographed a new cheer routine for next spring and put together a new song list for Campus Crusade for Christ’s War on Christmas midnight vigil,” she says eagerly.

“Awww, Annie. Look at her. She was such a dork,” Pierce says affectionately.

“She still is,” Shirley mutters.

Pierce chuckles. “Yeah”

Ruth Edison’s response is far less affectionate. “Did you write your father a Christmas card yet?” she asks coolly without looking up from her book.

Annie’s face falls. “He hasn’t sent me anything for years,” she protests.

“That’s no excuse. Just because he’s neglectful doesn’t give you an excuse to be ungrateful,” Ruth replies. Annie’s propensity for passive-aggression seems to be an inherited trait. “And I expect you to be thorough and eloquent when you tell him how much you love him and how much you miss him.”

“He’s not even going to read it.”

“That’s not the point. Anything worth doing…”

“...is worth doing well,” Annie replies automatically. “Can I do it later? Please? There’s this party I was hoping I could go to, and…”

“Oh Annie,” Ruth says, finally looking up from her book. “Why do you insist on wasting your time on something so frivolous?” Her voice is positively dripping with condescension. “It’s not like you’re ever going to see any of these people again after high school. If you want to get into Georgetown, you have to be the best.”

“Just one hour. Please?” Annie begs. “Then I’ll come right home, I promise.”

“Tell you what Annie. If you think it’s a good idea to go to a party, go to your little party. I leave it up to you. After all, _you_ know best.”

Annie looks happy as she heads towards her front door to leave, but her smile fades as she approaches it. She turns back, looking thoroughly miserable as she takes a seat at the desk. She takes out a sheet of paper and a purple pen, no doubt to write a thank you letter for a non-existent gift from an absentee father. She pulls a prescription bottle out of her pocket and pops an Adderall before going to work.

“I didn’t know Ruth was such a heartless bitch,” Pierce growls. “Glad we decided to keep things casual. Really dodged a bullet there.” This version of Ruth was a far cry from the charming woman he met.

“Oh, I see. So, this is about you now?” Shirley asks indignantly.

“No.” Pierce looks at Annie while she writes. “She was just a kid,” he laments as he catches her blinking back tears. “She deserved better than this.”

“You can’t change the past,” Shirley says gently. Pierce closes his eyes until she snaps her fingers, unwilling to continue watching his favorite person cry.

* * *

Pierce and Shirley arrive at a loud, messy, booze-fueled high school party. They weave their way through the crowd to find the King of Riverside High School, Troy Barnes, standing on a coffee table to address his loyal subjects.

“What up people? Can I holler at you for a minute?” Troy announces from up high. The rest of the party quiets down. “I just want to take a minute to thank all of you for taking the time to celebrate me and my awesomeness.” Everyone cheers as Troy mimes raising the roof to encourage them. “Not everyone can be this talented, good-looking, and humble,” he continues, “so way to recognize game.” Everyone laughs, as if on cue. “But seriously, it’s all the little people out there that make what we do possible, by lifting us truly exceptional up on their shoulders. Respect. T-Bone out!”

The crowd cheers for him as he mimes dropping a microphone, then hops of the coffee table with a showy flourish.

“Finally,” Pierce says appreciatively. “At least one of us was happy.”

“Does he look happy to you?” Shirley asks.

“Of course.”

“Look again.”

Pierce looks at Troy a bit more intently, noticing that Troy’s smile seems oddly forced and his eyes downcast, as though he’s enduring the attention rather than reveling in it.

“What’s his problem? I would have killed to be this popular in high school,” Pierce complains. “The girls want him, the boys want to be him. Heh, some of the boys probably want him to.” He offers Shirley a high-five. She stares him down until he lowers his hand.

“He looks pretty lonely to me,” Shirley notes as they watch Troy fake a smile and fist-bump his way through the partygoers.

“How can he be lonely? He has plenty of friends.”

“Troy didn’t have friends,” Shirley corrects him. “‘T-Bone’ had fans. There’s a difference.”

“Huh. I guess we had something in common,” Pierce muses. “The people that worked for me, back at Hawthorne Wipes. They’d kiss my ass all day long, but I could tell none of them really liked me.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“I’m just saying. It’s a lot of pressure. You have to maintain a certain image with these people.”

“Mmmm hmmm. And did that make you happy?” Shirley asks. “Maintaining that image? And does Troy look happy?”

“Potato, tomato,” Pierce shrugs.

“Troy wasn’t happy until he learned to let go of his pride and be true to himself. Turns out, there were people who appreciate him for who he really is.”

Some more than others. “Speaking of which, where is Ay-bed?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Shirley says as she raises her hand to snap her fingers, sending them to their next destination in a flash.

* * *

Pierce and Shirley arrive in what appears to be some kind of Middle Eastern restaurant. Pierce overheads Abed arguing with an older man in a strange language.

“هناك حقيقة مثبتة منذ زمن طويل وهي أن المحتوى,” Abed shouts.

“طريقة لوريم إيبسوم لأنها تعطي توزيعاَ طبيعياَ -إلى حد ما- للأحرف عوضاً عن استخدام "هنا يوجد,” the older man, who Pierce assumes is Abed’s father replies.

“هنا يوجد محتوى نصي”

“الشكلي منذ القرن الخامس عشر عندما قامت مطبعة مجهولة برص مجموعة من الأحرف بشكل عشوائي أخذتها من نص، لتكوّن .كتيّب بمثابة دليل أو مرجع شكلي لهذه الأحرف. خمسة قرون من”

Pierce doesn’t speak Arabic. Assuming this even is Arabic. It could be a bunch of random nonsense for all he knows.

“I can’t understand what they’re saying,” Pierce complains. His eyes widen as he considers the possibilities. “They’re not planning to 9/11 anyone, are they?”

“I’m a ghost, not a translator,” Shirley says irritably. “And if you can stop being a bigot for a minute, maybe you can take a look around and notice who isn’t here.”

Pierce looks around. “There’s no one else here.”

“Exactly. No friends. No other family. Just Abed and his father, who isn’t exactly a bucket of Christmas cheer.”

Abed storms away from his father and takes a seat on the floor in front of the small, but beautifully decorated Christmas tree by the front window of the restaurant.

“Where’s his mom?” Pierce asks.

“Running late. She’ll be here, but she has a new family now,” Shirley explains. “Eventually…”

“She stops coming,” Pierce finishes. He remembers the first time Abed went full-on crazy, ranting about Christmas wizards and gumdrop mountains. It was the day his mom bailed on their annual Christmas visit, having decided her new family was more important than her son. Dads flake out or phone it in or otherwise let their children down all the time. It’s to be expected. That’s just what they do. But kids need their moms. Especially a kid like Abed. “Sorry Abed. Merry Christmas,” Pierce says quietly while he watches Abed dote on his little tree.

“He can’t hear you,” Shirley reminds him.

“I know!” Pierce snaps. “So, what’s the point?”

“The past can be painful. We can either try to forget it, or we can learn from it. What are you going to do?” she asks.

Pierce doesn’t see the point in dredging up old pain. Dwelling on the past is as self-indulgent as it is futile. He’s done. “Hopefully get a good night’s sleep,” he retorts. “This blows.”

“Uh huh,” Shirley replies, unimpressed with Pierce’s attitude. “Good luck with that.”

_Snap._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Amrywiol, jeffwik, and Little_Annie_Adderall for beta reading, as well as Team Discord for all the support an encouragement. I hope to have Act 2 published in a timely fashion. Happy New Year!


	3. Act 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce rides a ghostly train and sees what is and what might have been.

When Pierce finds himself alone and safely seated in his study back at Hawthorne Manor, he assumes that he just nodded off and had some indigestion-induced bad dreams. This explanation is entirely reasonable, as he is prone to impromptu naps throughout the day and he made the mistake of eating in the cafeteria on lasagna day at Greendale.

However, this explanation does not account for an ashen-faced Abed clad in chains watching him with bored indifference. “Did you self-actualize yet?” Abed asks. “I’m hoping we can move this thing along. Annie and Troy are playing dreidel without me.”

Pierce closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. “Ay-bed, I am trying to sleep,” he mutters, hoping the ghost or delusion or whatever it is will just go away.

Abed sighs. “Guess not. Ghost of Greendale Present, coming up. Try not to keep him too long. Christmas isn’t nearly as fun without him.”

Pierce opens his eyes and looks at where Abed was standing, but he’s no longer there. “Who are you talking about?” he demands, searching the room for his spectral intruder.

“Boom! Ghost of Greendale Present in the house!” Troy proclaims proudly. He looks like Regular Troy, only he’s dressed in an old timey train driver’s uniform. His vest and hat are bright green and his tie is an equally bright red. “You can call me Troy. All my friends do, and I guess you can too.”

“Why are you dressed like that?” Pierce asks.

“Because trains are fun, dummy,” Troy replies, as if that’s all the explanation required. “And we're going on a _journey_. All aboard!” He reaches up toward the ceiling of Pierces study to grab the chain of a train whistle that’s there for some reason. Pierce feels his chair lurch back, only to find that it’s no longer his chair, but a passenger bench of an Old West style train. The whistle blows as the steam locomotive departs the station, or study, or who the hell knows.

“How did a train get inside my house?” Pierce asks as the train heads down the tracks into a snowy forest.

“How did we land on the moon? Just roll with it.”

The train speeds down the tracks with surprising speed, which is probably the least remarkable thing about a teleporting ghost train. The train slows to a stop outside a familiar apartment building, with Troy announcing their arrival with a series of enthusiastic whistles.

“Did we really have to come here?” Pierce grumbles as they head up to Jeff and Annie’s apartment. “If I wanted to go to their stupid party, I would have gone there myself.”

“Yeah, but this way, you get to see what they’re talking about while you aren’t there,” Troy says conspiratorially.

“Are they talking about me?”

“I dunno. Let’s go find out.”

Troy walks _through_ the closed door like it isn’t even there, because apparently ghosts, like fire, are capable of going through doors. Pierce stares at it, dumbfounded. Troy walks back through it. “Are you coming?” he asks impatiently.

“I’m not a ghost,” Pierce complains. “I can’t walk through doors.”

“Sure you can,” Troy promises. “You just have to believe.”

“Okay…” Pierce is skeptical, but considering he just got off of a magic train, he’s willing to take a leap of faith. He decides to give it a running head start for good measure.

He smashes straight into the door and falls flat on his back.

Ghost Troy cackles as he offers Pierce a hand. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist,” he says, still laughing as he helps Pierce to his feet. Pierce’s ego is more bruised than his face or his ass, but he’s still peeved. Troy doesn’t let go of his hand, and instead drags him through the door. This time the pair of them pass through it together effortlessly.

“Wow! Would you look at that?” Pierce says, his anger forgotten as he marvels at Troy’s ghost powers. “Just like Swayze.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” Troy says like it’s no big deal. “Weird that we don’t pass through the floor though.” Pierce tries to listen in to the party once he sees Jeff, Annie, the other Troy, Abed, Britta, and Shirley seated around the living room. He can’t make out what they’re saying, since Ghost Troy keeps on talking. “Whoa. What if we did fall through the floor, and we just kept falling? Would we just keep going and going until we reach the center of the earth? Isn’t it like, really hot down there? Can ghosts catch on fire? Can ghosts _become_ fire? That’d be pretty messed up.”

“I’m trying to eavesdrop here,” Pierce says flatly. Chatty Cathy here almost has him missing Shirley.

“Sorry. I’m just saying, Troy the Friendly Train Ghost? Not so scary. Troy the Flaming Lava Ghost? Super scary.”

“I just feel bad for him,” Annie says, interrupting Ghost Troy from his fire musings. “This is the second year in a row we’re celebrating the holidays without him.”

Pierce beams. Clearly she’s talking about him. He can always count on Annie to come to his defense. That’s why she’s his favorite. One of the reasons anyway.

“Annie, we didn’t exclude Pierce,” Jeff insists. “He chose not to be here. You don’t have to defend him.”

Pierce’s smile vanishes.

“Did anyone try calling him?” Shirley asks.

“Straight to voicemail,” Britta says, holding up her phone. Pierce checks his pockets for his own phone, but it isn’t there. He probably left it in his study or in the past or something.

“I could go get him,” Party Troy offers. “I still know the code to the gate. It’s one, two, three, four, five.” He frowns when he realizes that he broke the Hawthorne Mansion Resident Confidentiality Agreement. “Damn. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

“Gee, thanks Troy,” Pierce says to the version of Troy that can hear him.

“I told you I’m not good at secrets,” Ghost Troy whines. “But don’t you see? They all wish you were here.”

“Enough,” Jeffs says, doing that thing with his hand which makes everyone shut up and pays attention to him. It never works when Pierce tries to do it for some reason. “This is what he wants. Pierce wants us to feel sorry for him, make the whole evening about him, and ruin the entire night for all of us. We do not have to give him that power. Do we?”

The others mutter noncommittally.

_“Do we?”_

They mutter again, this time in reluctant agreement.

“You were saying?” Pierce says sarcastically.

“Jeff’s right,” Annie says. “If Pierce wanted to be here, he would be here. If his pride is more important than spending time with us, then that’s his problem.” She sounds disappointed rather than angry. Jeff strokes her back gently, then wraps a comforting arm around her and places a reassuring kiss on her forehead.

“We should go. Train’s about to leave,” Troy says quietly. He grabs Pierce by the hand and pulls him through the door. Together, they head back to the train.

“What else is there to see?” Pierce asks. “Everyone I care about is here.”

“Yeah, but they’re only here because of you.”

Pierce frowns, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you never came into our lives, none of us would have ended up here,” Troy explains.

“Yeah, right,” Pierce grumbles. He’s well aware that he’s the least essential member of the group. He could be phased out at the drop of a hat. They even tried to vote him out that one time and Annie was the only one that stuck for him, and even she turned against him in the end. Sure, they’ve moved past all that, but it still doesn’t change the fact that the others don’t really need him. Hell, if he _died_ they’d probably forget about him in a year at the most.

“Oh, you don’t believe me?” Troy says smugly. “That’s cool. Lucky for you, this train here is a Time Train. Like _Back to the Future: Part III,_ only way cooler. Hope you’re wearing socks old man, because I’m about to knock em’ off.”

The ghost train looks a bit different than when Pierce left it. It’s still a steam engine, only there’s a bunch of science fiction embellishments attached to it, with neon lights and electrical arcs illuminating it, bringing the two clashing aesthetics together like a hybrid between cyberpunk and steampunk. Not that Pierce knows what either of those things are. He’s not a nerd.

“Does it fly?” Pierce asks.

Troy’s face falls. “Man, I _knew_ you were gonna ask me that,” he complains. “No, it does not fly. It travels through space _and_ time,” he continues in a _you should be way more impressed by this_ way, “but no, it does not fly. If you want to fly, buy a damn plane ticket.”

“Sorry. Sheesh.”

“Or a jet pack. Actually, you should buy a jet pack. That’s way cooler. Although they’re probably pretty dangerous. Do they even make jet packs? I’ve seen them in movies, but I’ve never seen a real one.”

“I have no idea. Don’t you think we should get going? I’d like to get some sleep at some point,” Pierce grumbles.

“Right. Sorry.”

They board the train together. Troy yanks the whistle, announcing their departure to, well, only themselves, since no one else can see or hear the train. Pierce grips the railing when he sees electrical arcs start to dance along the surface of the locomotive.”

“Are you sure this thing is safe?” he asks.

“Totally,” Troy assures him. “Although, it is my first day, and I do not know what all of these levers do yet.”

“What!?”

“Relax. Although seriously. You should hold onto something.”

The train charges down the tracks with alarming speed. Electricity engulfs the air around them, condensing into a tunnel of flashing light. Pierce screams (in a very manly way) as they pass through the vortex and doesn’t stop screaming until the train slows to a stop, arriving in front of a nondescript bar with a red door.

“Welcome to The Pierceless Timeline,” Troy proclaims.

“Where are we?” Pierce asks.

“The question, Constable, isn't where... but when!” Troy proclaims. “I always wanted to say that. Anyway, ‘when’ is now. Only a different version of now. See, instead of going forward or back in time, we went _sideways._ To a different timeline.”

Pierce stares at him blankly, expecting a more detailed explanation. “What?” he asks, when none is forthcoming.

“It’ll be easier if I just show you. Follow me.”

The two of them head through the red door. The whole phasing through solid objects thing is still a little weird, but so is basically everything at this point. The pair find Britta tending an empty bar. Or rather, a mostly empty bar. Jeff enters through the door they just passed through, giving Pierce a shiver as Jeff walks straight through him.

“I’ll take a Macallan, neat, and whatever the lady is having,” Jeff says smoothly as he approaches the bar.

Britta makes a show of looking around for the lady in question, even though he obviously means her. _“Lady_ might be a bit of a stretch,” she says. She pours Jeff his scotch, then another for herself. “Look, don’t hit on me, okay? It’s been a long day.” He raises his glass and she does the same, clinking them together.

“Why are they acting like they’ve never met before?” Pierce asks.

“Because they haven’t,” Troy replies. “Shhh. Listen.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jeff replies. He takes a quick sip before continuing. “Hitting on someone implies the possibility of failure. It’s amateur hour. _Seducing_ someone on the other hand, now that’s an art.”

“And you think you’re an artist?” Britta says wryly.

“I dabble.”

“Interesting.” She seems disturbingly receptive to Jeff’s sleazy pickup artist routine. “Your confidence tells me you’ve used this move before, multiple times, and that it works more often than not.”

“And the fact that you’re still talking to me tells me it’s going to work again,” Jeff says smugly, confident that he’s sealed the deal.

“You don’t even know my name,” Britta says thoughtfully, running her thumb along the rim of her glass.

“Does it matter?” It’s not like he’s going to make her breakfast in the morning.

“I guess not.” Britta swallows what remains of her drink quickly, hissing through her teeth at the burn. “No kissing or eye contact, okay?” she insists. 

“ _Pretty Woman_ rules,” Jeff says with a douchey grin. “I can work with that.”

“Ugh,” Britta grimaces. “You’re the worst. You’re lucky I hate myself enough to find you utterly irresistible.” With that, she flicks on the switch, illuminating the neon CLOSED sign in the window. She doesn’t bother locking up, and instead takes Jeff by the hand and leads him behind the bar, leaving Pierce and Troy behind.

“Wow,” Pierce says. 

“Yeah. Not great,” Troy frowns.

“What _happened_ to them?”

“Without Greendale, Jeff and Britta went back to their old ways,” Troy explains sadly. “Jeff fudged his transcript, got his old job back and kept being a shallow, dishonest, manipulative tool. Britta’s weird friends bailed on her, so she spends her nights tending bar and hooking up with guys that are mean to her.”

“What do you mean, ‘without Greendale?’ What happened to Greendale?” Pierce asks.

“You’ll see. Time to go.”

The pair head through the door and back onto the street, where the train is waiting. Troy blows the whistle, announcing their departure, leaving Pierce to wonder and worry about what waits for them at their next stop.

* * *

The Time Train comes to a stop in front of a hospital, which gives Pierce goosebumps. He doesn’t ask who they’re here to see, but by process of elimination it has to be either the other Troy, Abed, Shirley or God forbid, Annie, or some combination thereof. Troy leads him through the front doors (the whole walking through solid matter thing still makes his stomach drop) and down a hallway until they reach an office with an open door. 

Pierce is somewhat relieved to see Annie, since she’s clearly an employee and not a patient. She looks more or less the same as he remembers, only she’s replaced the unflattering glasses of her teen years with a sleek, wire-rimmed pair and traded her blazer and skirt in for a trim pantsuit. She could easily pass for thirty in this getup, which appears to be by design.

Annie doesn’t acknowledge Pierce or Troy as they enter her office, continuing to work frantically. She only looks away from her computer screen long enough to fish a familiar prescription bottle out of her purse. She pops another pill, closes her eyes as she lets out a long, weary sigh, then goes back to work.

“Is that?” Pierce asks.

“Yep,” Troy says somberly.

“But I thought…”

“Just watch.”

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice calls out from behind them. Pierce turns to see Shirley walking unsteadily into Annie’s office. She looks much worse for the wear, badly bruised, like she got in a fight with an air bag and lost. “Can you help me? I’m looking for my children. We were in an accident. The paramedics said they would be here.”

“What happened?” Pierce asks.

“Car accident,” Troy replies.

Pierce sniffs the air. It reeks of booze. “Is she drunk?” he asks.

Troy sighs. “She usually is.”

“You’ll want to talk to the triage nurse in the ER,” Annie says curtly. She doesn’t bother looking up. “First floor, front desk.”

“They said I had to wait,” Shirley says.

“Then you’ll have to wait.” Annie seems indifferent, save for annoyance at the interruption. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to get back to work.”

“Do you think you could look them up on your computer?” Shirley presses. “Their names are Jordan and Elijah Bennet. I have a picture, if that helps.” She fumbles with her purse, dropping half of the contents on the floor before retrieving a worn photo of the boys.

“Ma’am, I’m an administrator,” Annie replies, clearly annoyed now that she has no choice but to give this woman her undivided attention. “I don’t have access to patient records, and I wouldn’t be able to release patient information to you even if I did. Go to the ER. I can’t help you.”

“Please! The nurse, he won’t let me go back. My husband…my ex-husband, he won’t take my calls. I don’t know where my children are. Please, help me,” Shirley begs her.

Annie’s nose flares. Clearly she can smell the alcohol too. Her eyes narrow. “Maybe you should sober up and come back later,” she says coldly.

Shirley’s eyes narrow too. “You bitch,” she growls.

Annie flashes her a plastic smile. “Okay,” she says calmly as she picks up her desk phone and hits the top button on the speed dial. “Officer Cackowski?” Shirley blanches at the mention of police. “Hi, it’s Annie. Got another one for you. I know, I know, I get all the drunks and crazies. Thank you. Merry Christmas.” She hangs up the phone, then stares Shirley down icily. “The police are on their way. I’d be gone before they get here if I were you. They don’t take kindly to drunk drivers. Especially ones who drive with their children in the car.”

For a second, Shirley looks like she wants to put Annie’s head through her own computer screen, but the fight leaves her quickly. She opts to flee instead, choking back sobs as she stumbles down the hallway.

Annie returns to her work, seemingly undeterred at first, but there’s a crack in the facade. Her breathing becomes shallow and rapid as she fumbles for another pill. She swallows it, but when she reaches for another, she finds the bottle is empty. She tosses it aside and opens her desk drawer, revealing at least a dozen identical bottles. She grabs one, wrenches open the cap, then takes another, and another, and one more for good measure.

“Don’t feel. Don’t feel. Don’t feel,” Annie whispers to herself, willing her emotions away. After a few moments, the drugs kick in, and she’s able to focus on her work again, which is the only thing that matters.

“That’s not my Annie,” Pierce says quietly.

“No, it’s not,” Troy agrees. “This is Perfect Annie. Perfect school, perfect grades, perfect career, perfect life. The perfect daughter, just like her mom always wanted.”

“She’s so _cold._ And she’s popping those pills like Tic-Tacs.” He shudders at the memory of his own brief bout with addiction. “She went to rehab. She was clean. She has been for years. Why’s she back on that stuff?”

“Price of perfection,” Troy shrugs.

“Annie and Shirley are the strongest women I know. They’re better than this,” Pierce insists.

“Without Greendale, Shirley gave up on her dreams, lost her family, crawled into a bottle and didn’t come out. And Annie had no one to go to but her mother and nothing to keep her going but the Adderall.”

“Can we leave?” Pierce asks. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Yeah. We should head to our next stop anyway.”

Troy and Pierce leave Perfect Annie to her very important work, passing a handcuffed Shirley in the custody of Officer Cackowski on their way out. Troy blows the whistle again as Pierce takes his seat on the train. The whistle sounds more melancholy than whimsical this time. Like it knows. The sinking feeling in Pierce’s gut worsens as the train picks up speed. All he can do is hope the worst is behind them.

* * *

Pierce winces as the train pulls up in front of a familiar restaurant. He follows Troy inside, who seems as reluctant to enter as he is. Gobi (he’s pretty sure that’s Abed’s dad’s name) is absent this time. Instead Abed is alone, having a rather animated conversation with what appears to be a crude sculpture of a head made out of falafel. It’s basically a large ball of fried dough with a smiley face painted on it. Pierce finds it deeply unsettling.

“Gotta love crab. In the nick of time too. I couldn't take much more of those coconuts. Coconut milk is a natural laxative. That's something Gilligan never told us,” Abed says to his creation, quoting verbatim from the movie _Cast Away._ “Gilligan’s Island really pushed the limits of suspension of disbelief, didn’t it? A boat like that would only go about six knots an hour, so on a three hour tour that’s just over a thousand square nautical miles. That’s nothing for a search plane, and Mr. Howell was rich, so he’d definitely have the Coast Guard looking for him. People would care that he disappeared.” He pauses, having stumbled into an unpleasant thought.

This version of Abed has officially crossed the line from delightfully eccentric into something darker. The saner version of Abed would probably make some kind of movie reference if he was here to comment on it.

“And I thought he was crazy before,” Pierce remarks.

“Don’t,” Troy warns him. “Just don’t.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m putting too much thought into a show where you can make a geiger counter out of bamboo and coconuts, aren’t I?” Abed asks the sculpture. “You wouldn't have a match by any chance, would you? Wilson?” It doesn’t respond. It’s a ball of falafel. “Boring conversation anyway.”

“Look, I gotta go. I can’t watch this,” Troy says. He walks straight through the wall without waiting for Pierce to respond.

“Watch what?” Pierce asks, too late.

As if on cue, the Troy of this timeline and a small entourage burst into the restaurant like they own the place. Troy looks the same, only he’s traded his purple and gray Riverside High School letterman’s jacket for a blue and gold University of Colorado version. He and his cronies still project the same Alpha Beta antagonistic asshole attitude though.

“Crap,” Pierce mutters. This isn’t going to end well.

“Hey, you want to hear something funny? My dentist's name is James Spalding,” Abed says, still talking to Falafel Wilson, failing to notice the real people in the restaurant.

“Check it out,” one of Troy’s henchmen, probably named Stan or Chad or something says. “Haji’s talking to himself.”

“Yo Haji. Who are you talking to?” Troy asks. “Are you like, trying to contact your home planet or something?”

“I’m not Indian,” Abed replies.

“What?”

“Haji, from Johnny Quest? He was Indian. I’m Arab. Also half-Polish.”

“Whatever dude,” Troy scoffs. “I’m an athlete, not an entomologist.” He meant to say ethnologist. “Lemme get a number three to go.”

“That will be $11.47,” Abed replies. He starts preparing Troy’s food as Troy pulls out his wallet. “You strike me as more of a Flintstones fan than Johnny Quest anyway.”

“Do what now?” Troy’s other lackey, who is also probably named Stan or Chad or something asks.

“The Flintstones. The modern Stone Age family. It was another popular Hanna-Barbara cartoon,” Abed explains.

“Oh yeah. I remember those,” Troy says, smiling at the memory of the old Saturday morning cartoon. “Fred would get hit in the head and think he was someone else, like a racecar driver or a pilot or something.”

“Yep.”

“Although I can tell you from experience, concussions do not work like that.”

“Did you ever see the crossover movie where the Jetsons go back in time and meet the Flintstones?” Abed asks.

“That was awesome,” Troy gushes. “Even though there were millions of years apart, they had so much in common.”

“You know, the Jetsons was supposed to take place in 1996.”

“Really? That’s messed up. Why don’t we have flying cars? Or robot maids?” Troy asks.

“Real life is disappointing like that,” Abed says wistfully. “You’re pretty cool though.”

“Duh doy,” Troy replies. “I’m a football player. That’s basically the coolest thing a person can be. Except maybe an astronaut. Or a cowboy.”

“I don’t really watch football,” Abed admits. “But you like the things you like and don’t try to hide it. That’s cool. Cool, cool, cool. We should be friends.”

“Gay,” Chad replies. “Why would he want to be friends with you?”

“Yeah. Why would I want to be friends with you?” Troy asks.

“I don’t know. It seems like we have a lot in common, but I could be misreading that,” Abed says as he hands Troy his meal and drink. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not very good at talking to people unless it’s about TV or movies. I was talking to an imaginary friend I made out of falafel before you came in here. Our conversations tend to be pretty one-sided.”

Troy scowls. “Dude, we have _nothing_ in common. I’m gonna be in the NFL. You’re slinging Indian food.”

“Middle Eastern.”

“Whatever. I’m a winner. You’re a loser. A _freak.”_ Troy takes his drink, reaches over and dumps it over Abed’s head. “Keep the change,” he scoffs, tossing a wad of bills at his chest to add insult to injury. Troy and his cronies laugh as they leave the restaurant. Abed squats to pick up the money off the floor, but ends up curling into a ball on the floor instead, rocking and emitting a high pitched whine, like something inside him has broken.

“Time to go,” Ghost Troy says numbly. The pair head out of the restaurant and board the train in silence. Troy doesn’t blow the whistle as the train lurches down the tracks.

“No whistle this time?” Pierce asks.

“Whistles are for winners. That guy is no winner.” Troy points at his bully of a doppelganger standing on the sidewalk with his asshole friends.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on yourself?” He feels a sudden swell of sympathy for this Troy, who seems to be blaming himself for the actions of another version of himself. Time travel is a mind trip.

“No, I don’t,” Troy says firmly. “Without Greendale, I became _Troy Barnes_ , bigshot college quarterback and even bigger dick. And Abed, well, he’s always had one foot out of reality, and without the rest of us to keep him grounded...

“You keep saying ‘without Greendale.’ What do you mean without Greendale?” Pierce demands. “I thought this was the Pierceless timeline.”

“You’ll see soon enough. This is our last stop.” Pierce looks out the window to see that they’ve arrived back at Hawthorne Manor.

“Oh. You want to hang out for a while? Like we did back in the good old days?” Pierce asks, referencing their brief stint as roommates. Not that he’d ever admit it, but he misses having Troy as a roommate.

“I can’t. I got a schedule to keep,” Troy says apologetically. “Good luck with the next part. It’s gonna wrinkle your brain.”

“Can’t wait,” Pierce grimaces. He steps off of the train, sighing as he makes his way back into the empty house.

“Hey, could you do me a favor?” Troy asks. The train is already moving, but Pierce can still hear him clearly over the engine. “When you see Abed, could you tell him I’m sorry?”

“Sure thing buddy.” They share a wave as the train departs, leaving Pierce alone once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Team Discord and in particular to Amrywiol for his input.


	4. Act 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce meets the final spirit and witnesses a vision of Greendale yet to come.

If he had been left to his own devices, Pierce would have been content to spend the rest of the evening sulking instead of dealing with this It’s a Wonderful Life crap. He’s no Jimmy Stewart after all. Unfortunately, Abed’s ghost had other plans, as Pierce finds him sitting in his chair as he returns to his study.

“Go away Ay-bed,” Pierce grumbles.

“I can’t. It doesn’t work like that,” Abed replies unsympathetically.

“Well, go haunt someone else. I’m done with all this ghost crap,” Pierce mutters. If he wanted to be haunted, he’d go visit the Hawthorne family mausoleum. 

“I would if I could.” He sounds genuinely regretful, at least by Abed’s standards. “There’s a reason we don’t get many storylines together. We have basically zero chemistry and my presence tends to bring out the worst aspects of your personality.”

“Whatever.” Pierce sighs, resigned to the fact that he has no choice but to see this thing through to the end. “Oh, by the way,” he says, remembering the message he was supposed to pass on. “Troy, or Ghost Troy, or whoever he was wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry.”

Abed nods thoughtfully. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just the messenger,” Pierce mumbles uncomfortably.

“That makes two of us. Speaking of which, there’s only one ghost left for you to meet. Although I have to warn you, this ghost is the  _ worst _ .”

A dense fog floods the room. The temperature goes from comfortably warm to bitterly cold in an instant. The door opens to reveal a menacing and seemingly faceless hooded figure in a ragged black cloak. It approaches, seeming to glide its way through the fog. Pierce backs away in fear as the specter approaches, cowering as the wretched creature reaches up with pale hands to draw back the hood.

His stricken features shift to a scowl when the hood falls away, revealing Britta, only with black hair and pancake white makeup. Her heavy eyeshadow, running mascara and black lipstick give her a vaguely skeletal appearance, but she’s not quite as intimidating as she seemed at first.

“Oh great. It’s you,” Pierce says flatly. “Let me guess. You’re the Ghost of Greendale Future, right?”

Britta nods solemnly.

“Are you going to lecture me about global warming or feminism or animal rights or something?”

Britta shakes her head slowly.

“Are you here to tell me that I’m a sad, crazy old man and that if I don’t change my ways I’m going to die alone?”

Britta just stares at him.

Pierce frowns. The real Britta talks incessantly. This silent version is...unsettling. “Are you going to say anything at all?” he demands.

Britta continues to stare dispassionately.

“Whatever,” Pierce grumbles. “Let’s get this over with.”

She leads him to the door of his study. The knob feels solid against his hand, so he twists it open. He frowns in confusion as he passes through it, discovering a drab hallway encased in cinder block on the other side instead of the familiar halls of his mansion. He turns around to find a jail cell behind him instead of the door. At the end of the cell blocks is another version of Britta, similar to the one he knows and  tolerates cares for. She’s standing next to a bored police officer, punching numbers into the phone on the wall.

“Hey, it’s me,” she says into the headset. “Yes. Yes,  _ again _ . No, it wasn’t my fault. These fascist pigs wouldn’t know the First Amendment if it bit them on the ass.” She glared at the cop defiantly. He looks thoroughly unimpressed. “Yes, the one on the news. Look, can we not do this now? Of course, I’m gonna pay you back. Soon. I don’t know,  _ soon _ . Okay yes, maybe I was holding, but it was just peyote, which is totally medicinal.” Possibly not the best thing to say in front of a cop. “What do you mean you’re not coming?” Her tone shifts from irritation to worry. “You’re not seriously going to just leave me in here? C’mon. I’m sorry. Just, come get me, okay? I can’t stay here. Please?” Her face falls. Whoever is on the other line isn’t coming to her rescue. “Whatever Mom. I’m not gonna beg. I guess I’ll see you when I see you. Merry Christmas.” She slams the headset into the receiver.

She takes a few moments to compose herself, obviously fighting back tears. Eventually she turns back to the jailer, her mask back in place. “Well, looks like you’re stuck with me. Sucks to be you,” she says sarcastically. “I’m the worst.”

“You’re not. You’re the best of us. I wish you could see that,” Pierce mutters thickly. But there’s nothing he can do for her. The other Britta, the contemptuously silent specter leads him out of the cell block and through a metal door. On the other side is a familiar Middle Eastern restaurant. There’s no Christmas tree this time. No customers either. The only two people present are Shirley and Abed’s father. The pair are locked in a heated argument and appear just short of coming to blows.

“What do you mean I’m fired?” Shirley roars.

“I’m sorry. I thought I was speaking English,” Mr. Nadir says sarcastically. “Perhaps I should try speaking angry drunk.” To be fair, Shirley appears to be both.

“Oh, so now we’re getting personal?”

“Hardly. You’re always late, you burn the falafel, you yell at the customers. You are the worst employee I have ever had.”

“Better than your son,” Shirley growls.

Mr. Nadir’s face flushes. If he was angry before, he’s livid now. “Don’t you  _ dare _ talk about my son,” he snarls. “Where are your children, huh? What kind of mother are you?”

“My boys are with their father. Where’s  _ yours?” _

It’s a good question. Pierce suspects he isn’t going to like the answer.

_ “Get out! Never come back!” _

_ “Gladly!” _

Pierce doesn’t know what to say to this Shirley, this bitter, angry, broken shell of the strong, proud, sexy woman he respects and cares for. He follows her out of the restaurant, trailed by Britta, but there’s a hospital on the other side of the door instead of the street.

“Crap. Another hospital?” Pierce says. “I hate hospitals. Why are we here?”

Britta says nothing, but points to a sign on the wall that says Psychiatric in big block letters. Pierce sighs, relieved that they’re not in the emergency room. Or the morgue. He looks around, seeing a bunch of people wearing purple scrubs wearing those soft, thin, shoelaceless shoes. Patients, he assumes. Leonard is among them.

“Here you are Leonard,” a drab looking Mexican nurse says kindly. She hands him a couple of pills. “Swallow.” He does so, then opens his mouth for her to verify. “Very good.”

“You know, if you’re free later, me and the boys were thinking about getting a little poker game together in the rec room tonight,” Leonard says with a rather unsubtle wink.

“Shut up Leonard!” a shill female voice shouts. “No one wants to play strip poker with you and the other geriatric head cases.”

“Nobody asked your opinion Annie!” Leonard retorts.

“Annie’s here?” Pierce looks around for his favorite, suddenly excited. Maybe she got the help she needed. The last time he saw her she was clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He spots a petite brunette in purple scrubs, but her skin is a few shades too dark and she’s wearing glasses. Annie Kim, not Edison. “Oh. It’s the Asian one nobody likes,” he grumbles.

“Behave you two,” the nurse scolds them. She heads off to another chair containing another patient, then hands him his medication. “Here you go Abed.”

Of course Abed is here.

“No thank you,” Abed says politely. “I don’t need medication.”

“Abed, we’ve been over this,” the nurse says with the tired irritation of someone who is doomed to endlessly repeat a conversation. “You have to take your medicine.”

“I don’t like how it makes me feel.” Pierce frowns. What are they giving him?

“Well, you can discuss that with your doctor during your next appointment. Swallow.  _ Swallow,”  _ she repeats when he hesitates to comply. She checks his mouth a bit more thoroughly. “Very good.” Satisfied, she leaves him to tend to her other patients.

“Paging Nurse Ratched, am I right Ay-bed?” Pierce asks as he takes a seat next to Abed. “This place is a regular cuckoo’s nest. Real looney toons.” He assumes Abed will get the reference.

Abed just stares vacantly at the wall.

Pierce frowns. “C’mon Ay-bed. Give me something. Like, doesn’t this place remind you of Girl, Interrupted? Man, Angelina Jolie was hot in that movie. Crazy, but hot. Crazy hot. And I don’t have to tell you what crazy chicks are like in the bedroom.”

Abed keeps staring.

Pierce looks up at Britta helplessly. She has nothing to say to him either. “You know, you’re not crazy Abed. I know I tell you you’re crazy all the time, but you’re not.”

Abed doesn’t respond.

Britta points to the double door exiting the ward. Pierce reluctantly walks towards and then through it, wary of what lies behind them but unwilling to remain with his now catatonic friend. The door leads to a messy apartment, or perhaps a dorm room. There are discarded beer cans, pizza boxes containing stale, half-eaten pizzas, and also Troy, watching TV. His left leg is in a cast that extends from his foot up to above his knee and there is a pair of crutches leaning against the couch he’s reclining on.

“Hey man, it’s T-Dawg,” Troy says into his phone. “You wanna come hang out? Not much, just watchin’ TV. Thought we could play Madden or somethin’.” His face falls. “Oh. Yeah, that’s cool. I’ll catch you later then.” Fame is a fickle friend it seems.

“And there’s Barnes with the snap,” the TV blares. “He’s looking for an opening. There goes the pocket. He better get rid of it. And he goes down with a sack. That was one nasty hit. The human knee is not meant to go in that direction. That looked painful. Doesn’t look like he’s getting up. And the medics are heading onto the field..”

The video is promptly cut off when a large, gaudy trophy flies through the air and into the screen, shattering it and knocking the TV off of the stand entirely.

“You know, back when we lived together, we used to watch football sometimes,” Pierce says. Troy can’t hear him of course, and Britta won’t respond, but he keeps talking anyway. “I miss it sometimes. It was fun having a roommate. I never told him this, but I always saw a little of myself in Troy. He has the heart of a hero. Seeing him waste it like this…” He trails off, watching sadly as Troy hobbles over to the fridge to retrieve a beer.

Pierce shakes his head, then turns around to head back through the door. Before he can pass through it, Britta puts her hand on his shoulder.

“What?” Pierce asks. Britta looks up at him sadly. He looks back at the door, dreading who he’ll find on the other side. Knowing he has no choice but to press on, he opens it, finding himself in a fancy corporate office. His old lawyer Alan is there, striding over to the desk where his current lawyer, Jeff, is seated, frowning over a stack of papers as he nurses a glass of scotch.

“Tango! What up bruh?” Alan asks in smug dude-bro speak. “Who’s the sexy schoolgirl?”

“Annie Edison,” Jeff replies with what Pierce recognizes as concealed annoyance. Pierce has been on the receiving end of that tone a lot. “Family’s going after some doctor that played fast and loose with his prescription pad. Malpractice, wrongful death. You know the drill.”

No.

“Dark dude. Easy money though, am I right? Too bad. She’s a straight up hottie.”

“Yeah. She’s…she was, beautiful,” Jeff says. He sounds almost wistful. “Smart too. Top of her class at Georgetown, senior administrator at Rose Medical at only twenty-four. Incredible. God, how does someone like that OD?”

No. That’s not possible.

“Who knows man? Jury’s gonna eat it up though,” Alan says with callous enthusiasm. This tool is the epitome of the ambulance chasing stereotype. “Speaking of which, you wanna get some wings? I’m starving.”

“You go ahead. I’m gonna stay for a while.”

“Your loss bro. Means I don’t have to compete with all that Winger mojo while I’m trying to score some hot waitress’s number. Sundance out!”

Jeff remains at his desk, staring thoughtfully at the glossy photo of Annie, looking bright and beautiful. Maybe somehow this version of him is aware of what might have been between them. Maybe he’s just lamenting his own misspent life. Despite the fancy office and the nice suit, this Jeff seems  _ miserable. _ Maybe deep-down this Jeff is still human after all. Maybe he cares. Maybe he’s mourning the loss of someone he doesn’t even know, someone who died too young and with dreams unfulfilled.

But that’s impossible. Because Annie can’t be dead. She can’t be.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Pierce whispers in a desperate mantra. “This can’t be real. Britta, where’s Annie? What happened to Annie?” He grabs Britta by the shoulders and shakes her. “Say something!” he begs her.

Britta’s only response is to point at the door. Pierce steels himself for what lies beyond before he grips the handle and opens it. He doesn’t look back before stepping through.

This time he finds himself outside, transported from the extravagant corporate law office to a familiar community college campus. Only this isn’t the campus he knows and loves. The lights are out, most of the doors and the few intact windows are boarded up. The buildings cast long, menacing shadows under the moonlight. There’s empty beer cans, discarded cigarette packs, used condom wrappers, and other bits of random trash scattered around the quad. Three homeless men who rather strongly resemble Garrett, Todd, and Neil huddle around a literal dumpster fire at the feet of the now headless statue of Luis Guzmán. A pack of wild dogs chase a feral cat out from around the library, past Pierce and Britta and toward the administration building.

This isn’t Greendale. It’s the abandoned, lifeless husk of Greendale.

Britta leads him onto what remains of the quad. Nested between the dead trees is a single headstone adorning a fresh mound of disturbed earth. Pierce doesn’t have a chance to ponder the absurdity of a college campus serving as a literal graveyard. He’s too preoccupied with what’s written on the grave. There’s a small six pointed star engraved in thin, neat lines at the top. Below that are lines of text written in an indecipherable script he assumes is Hebrew.

Below that is the rest.

ANNIE EDISON

BELOVED DAUGHTER

DEC 19, 1990 - DEC 18, 2015

FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS

Pierce drops to his knees and bursts into tears. Ugly, guttural, full-body sobs. He didn’t cry when his mother’s body was vaporized and her spirit was placed into Energon pod storage. He certainly didn’t cry when his father died, may he burn in hell. But he cries for Annie.

“Someone should have helped her,” Pierce sobs. “Why didn’t anyone do something?”

“She was alone,” Abed says sadly, appearing next to Pierce where Britta stood previously. “Before she met us, her entire sense of self-worth was grounded in her accomplishments. In what she could do, not who she was. Without people like us, people like you, people that love her unconditionally, all Annie had was her ambition and her insecurities to keep her going. So, she just kept going and going and going…until she couldn’t.” Abed isn’t exactly known for being emotional, but his voice catches at the end.

“I want to go home Ay-bed.”

“You are home. You’re asleep in your chair. This is a dream. All of this is happening in your head,” Abed explains.

“Well then, make it stop!” Pierce demands.

“I can’t. I’m not real. But  _ you _ can.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “The Ghosts of Greendale, they showed you everyone else’s past, present, and future, but not your own. I wonder if it’s because deep down, you care more about us than you do about yourself.”

“So why am I at home, alone, instead of with you guys?”

“I think you just answered your own question,” Abed replies. “There’s just one last thing I have to show you.”

Abed takes Pierce’s hand and helps him up. They leave Annie’s grave and head into the ruins of the administration building. However, when they step through the doors, night literally turns to day. They aren’t teleported away to another location by ghostly magic this time, but they’ve clearly gone somewhere else. Or perhaps,  _ somewhen _ else. 

The interior of the building doesn’t match the derelict exterior. It’s bright, clean, and new. Well, bright, clean, and new by Greendale standards anyway. Abed leads Pierce to the (Vice) Dean Pelton’s office, where they find him laughing and chatting with a young(er) Pierce Hawthorne.

There is a 2004 Dalmatian calendar on the Dean’s desk. Assuming it’s accurate, it seems they’ve gone back to the past. Ten years in the past, years before his young friends started at Greendale. “Look at that handsome stud. God, I was so young,” Pierce says wistfully. The younger version looks exactly the same as the older version. Abed politely abstains from commenting.

“I just can’t thank you enough. You may not believe this, but we struggle to pay the bills around here,” Vice Dean Pelton says appreciatively. “The only way we can keep the lights on is with the help of generous donors like you.”

“Happy to help,” Past Pierce says cheerfully as he signs a check. “This is a special place. Plus, I’m loaded. What else am I going to do with all that money? A man can only own so many hot tubs.” Abed lets that slide without comment as well.

“Well, thank you once again Mr. Hawthorne. I can’t overstress this. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you literally saved Greendale today,” the Vice Dean Pelton insists. “We should name a building after you. What do you think about Hawthorne Hall?”

“It was nothing,” Past Pierce says modestly. “How big a building are we talking about?”

“Let me get back to you on that.”

“You know, I never did get that building,” Pierce chuckles. He’d almost forgotten about it.

“Probably for the best,” Abed replies. “That would not have done good things to your ego. Plus, you got something better instead. We all did.”

The door to the office brings them to the study room, even though that’s in a different building. Dreams or magic or whatever this is don’t have to adhere to spatial reality after all. Together, Pierce and Abed look at the empty table and chairs fondly. “We started out as a Spanish study group. Now we’re the Save Greendale Committee,” Abed muses. “But the truth is, you saved Greendale before we even knew it existed. Thanks to you, when our lives fell apart and we had no one else to turn to, we had a safe place to go. Somewhere we could learn to be better versions of ourselves. A place where we could find friends. Where we could become a family.”

“Is that what we are Ay-bed?” Pierce asks. “A family?”

“What do you think?”

Pierce rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I think I’m late for a party.”

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool,” Abed replies. “You should get going. You don’t want to miss it.” A gong rings five times in the distance. Pierce smiles as he opens his eyes, safely back in his study. If he hurries, he just might make it in time.

* * *

Pierce can hear the others laughing through the door of Jeff’s apartment. He hesitates a moment before knocking, briefly wondering whether he’ll even be welcome. Eventually he musters enough courage to knock on the door three times.

“It’s probably Craig,” Jeff says through the door. “I’ll get it.”

Jeff looks surprised, but not displeased to see an embarrassed Pierce as he opens the door.  “There room at this party for a grumpy old man?” he asks with a bashful smile.

“I don’t know. What do you think guys?” Jeff asks, looking back at the others.

“Get your ass in here boy. It’s freezing out there,” Shirley yells.

“Looks like that’s a yes.”

Pierce grins as he sees the rest of his friends dressed in a variety of festive outfits. He’s grateful to see Abed in particular, finally free from his chains. “Happy Hanukah Pierce,” Abed says as he offers a glass of cider.

“Thanks Ay-bed,” Pierce says, clapping him on the back warmly. “For everything.”

Abed looks at him quizzically. “You seem different. Did you have a life-altering experience? Did you meet the real Santa Claus? Did your heart grow three sizes?”

Pierce ignores him. Annie is there, standing in front of him, alive, well, and happy.

“Annie!” he cries. He rushes over to her and squeezes her in a tight hug. She shoots her fiancé a bewildered look, which Jeff responds to with a bemused shrug.

“Pierce? Are you okay?” Annie asks, gently prompting him to let her go. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Pierce doesn’t tell her about the ghosts of Greendale. Only Abed would believe him anyway. Instead, he just hugs Annie again, who then beckons Jeff to join them. Jeff rolls his eyes but wraps his arms around both of them, kissing Annie’s temple softly before settling into the now group hug. Shirley, Troy, and Britta join them and even Abed, who’s not much of a hugger opts in, since what kind of Grinch would skip out on a group hug on Christmas?

Later that evening, three spirits watch from outside the apartment window as Annie shows Pierce how to light the menorah properly. He only knocks it over once. The ghosts share a smile with Pierce before fading away, content to see the old man back with his family where he belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update this one! It got kind of dark there for a minute, but as promised, I'm all about happy endings! Thanks to Amrywiol for beta reading once again! Collaboration is a beautiful thing.


	5. Outro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you have friends, you have family.

“What’s in this one?” Annie asks, handing Abed an irregularly shaped present wrapped in bright and colorful paper. She’s on her knees in front of the Christmas tree alongside Troy and Abed while the self-proclaimed adults look on with amusement.

Abed presses his ear against it and shakes it. “Darth Vader socks, with little Santa hats on the helmets,” he says confidently.

“There is no way you can possibly know that,” Britta says scoffs. “Autism is not a superpower.”

“Don’t be a stooge, Ebenezer Scrooge,” Annie retorts.

“Wow. You really had to reach for that one, didn’t you?” Jeff smirks. Annie rolls her eyes at him.

“What about this one?” Troy asks, handing Abed a large rectangular box.

Abed gives it a quick shake. “Miniature billiards set.”

“Interesting. For Pierce or from Pierce?” Annie asks.

“It doesn’t say. There’s no label,” Troy says as he inspects the package. “Also, this is birthday wrapping paper.” 

“Guys, knock it off,” Jeff says, frowning.

“It’s probably from Jeff,” Abed says. Everyone but Jeff and Pierce nod in agreement.

“Thanks Jeff,” Pierce beams, clapping him on the back. “You shouldn’t have.” His smile fades after a moment and his brow furrows in suspicion. “Wait a minute. Didn’t I get you a miniature billiards set last year?”

Jeff takes a long, slow sip of wine and says nothing.

“What’s in this one?” Troy asks.

“Toy fire truck,” Abed replies.

“That’s gotta be for Troy,” Annie says cheerfully. She got him a police car and Jeff got him an ambulance, so he has a full set.

“Um, spoiler alert?” Troy complains.

“You’re the one that asked!”

“Annie,” Shirley says in her mom voice, “ _ some people _ might feel like you’re ruining the surprise by letting our resident soothsayer use his unholy powers to guess what’s inside those presents.

“I don’t have powers, Shirley,” Abed explains. Again. “I’m just making educated guesses based on the size and shape of the present and what I hear when I shake it compared with what I know about both the giver and the receiver of the gift.” He picks up three book-shaped presents to illustrate his point. “Study Bible.” For Shirley, obviously. “DSM Five.” Britta, of course. “Day planner.” And Jeff.

“Gee, I wonder who all those books are from?” Jeff asks, teasing his favorite nerd as he joins her on the floor. She swats him, grinning impishly.

“I put little notes in the margins on each page for you,” Annie says. In purple ink, of course.

“Awww, that’s nice!” Shirley coos. Britta pretends to gag behind her.

“What about this one?” Annie asks, handing Abed another present, this one wrapped in blue and silver paper.

Abed frowns after shaking it. “You may not want to open this in front of everyone,” he explains. “I’m pretty sure Jeff meant to give this to you on Valentine’s Day.”

“Jeff!” She swats him harder this time.

Jeff blanches. “Dammit Abed!” he yells.

“Jeffrey, I know this is only your first marriage,” Pierce says in a patronizing tone, “but you don’t give your lady love lingerie in front of her friends and family. It’s unseemly.” The younger man still has a lot to learn about love.

“It’s not lingerie,” Abed says flatly.

Everyone looks mildly mortified.

“Jeffrey!” Shirley shouts.

“Damn man. You really Jeffed that up,” Troy says, shaking his head.

“Jeffed up,” Pierce chortles. “Nice.”

Jeff does what he does best when he’s backed into a corner. He improvises. “Laugh it up you jerks. I’ll have you know that this present is a decoy,” he says, lying his ass off.

Abed considers asking why Jeff would put a decoy present under the tree, but Jeff is glaring at him with what he’s pretty sure is murderous intent, so Abed remains silent.

Jeff rushes off to the bedroom and returns with the correct present, making a mental note to avoid wrapping gifts in identical wrapping paper in the future. “This is your real present,” Jeff says as he hands it to Annie. “Go ahead and open it before Rain Man spoils it for you.”

Annie lets out a happy hum as she carefully unwraps it. It’s a leather binder with both of their names etched on the front. Inside are pages with empty photo sleeves. “A wedding album?” she squeals. If she was a cartoon character, her eyes would be heart-shaped right now.

“I thought we could fill it together. Do you like it?” Jeff asks shyly.

Annie straight up tackles him. “I love it,” she manages to say once she takes a break from kissing him. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jeff replies. He kisses her back. It starts off chaste, then becomes...less so.

“Save some for the wedding you two,” Shirley scolds them. Jeff briefly considers asking their guests to leave so he can whisk his bride-to-be off to their bedroom, but he assumes Annie would think that was rude.

“Happy Hanukkah Annie,” he says, flashing her a  _ we’ll pick this up later _ look.

“Happy Hanukkah Jeff,” she replies, with an equally smoldering look.

“So, do I win?” Jeff asks.

“You totally win,” Annie assures him.

“Wow. Leave it to you two dorks to turn gift-giving into a competition,” Britta remarks. “Abed’s right. You really are perfect for each other.”

“In every conceivable timeline,” Abed says sagely. “And that’s canon.”

-

Pierce returns to Hawthorne Manor with three gifts that night. The first is a lightly used miniature billiard set with a missing ball. The second is a collection of short stories by Charles Dickens. The third is a photo of the seven of them, taken that very night by the Dean when he inevitably invited himself over. Pierce eventually has this impromptu group portrait printed, framed, and hung in his home, a testament to the people he loves and that (occasionally reluctantly (but nevertheless sincerely)) love him in return.

When you have friends, you have family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone! I meant to get this done by the end of the holidays, but if Community can air a winter holiday episode in April, I don't feel too bad about wrapping this up in March.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Amrywiol for his input and to the Discord crowd for embracing this winter holiday prompt.


End file.
